


The Gospel of Mathew

by Eiiri



Series: The Gospel of Mathew [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Ableism is a Thing, Bisexual Matt Murdock, Blind Characters, Blue Poweraid tastes like Blue, Catholic Guilt, Catholic Matt Murdock, Dark but Funny, Father Lantom is a Cool Priest, Foggy Nelson Is a Good Bro, Gayngst, Internalized Homophobia, Jesus Christ Superstar - Freeform, M/M, Matt Murdock & Foggy Nelson Friendship, Matt Murdock Angst, Matt Murdock Needs Jesus, Matt Murdock Needs a Hug, Matt Murdock is Bad at Feelings, Matt Murdock is Bad at Relationships, Matt Swears He's Straight, Matt is a Jerk, Matt is a Liar, Matt is oblivious, SO MUCH TEA, Secret Identity, Secret Relationship, There is Life Outside Hell's Kitchen, Unhealthy Relationships, love is blind, sex happens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2016-09-02
Packaged: 2018-08-10 21:16:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7861456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eiiri/pseuds/Eiiri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt Murdock isn't the world's best Catholic--he tries, but between his day job as a lawyer and his nights spent jumping roof to roof as a masked vigilante and, well, being a bit of an all around jerk, he falls short of being a model of Christian virtue.  For the same reasons, he's not very good at holding onto a girlfriend.<br/>These problems tangle each other up when Matt, as the Daredevil, rescues the one other blind guy in Hell's Kitchen--and he turns out to be exactly what Matt never let himself look for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was born of a "Matt could use a lover but I don't ship him with anyone on this show--I'll just make him a boyfriend, it'll be cute!" Yeah, Catholic gayngst turned it much darker than originally intended. Be warned: the following relationship is not healthy and should not be emulated. It'll get better in later installments.

The rustle and whine of dogs digging through dumpsters, a far off squeal of tires as idiots drag-raced between traffic lights in Chelsea, the wail of an ambulance pulling into an E.R. lot, a mother and daughter having a shouting match over the length of the girl's skirt again. These were the sounds of Hell's Kitchen past midnight on a Wednesday night/Thursday morning in September. Soft among the clamor was the familiar, rhythmic tapping of a guide cane on concrete—the wielder of which was humming showtunes to himself as he walked. Sitting on the roof of a half-abandoned, half-under-renovation apartment block in his armor, Matt Murdock grinned to himself. It was a calm night, nothing going horrifically wrong for once, so he could take a moment to appreciate his neighborhood. He recognized the song the man with the cane was humming, though he couldn't place it. He recognized the man by his gait and the tapping of his cane—the one other blind man in Hell's Kitchen under the age of fifty—though he'd never met him. There was another set of footsteps following behind the man's, heavier, booted. The heavier footsteps quickened to catch up to the man with the cane, a swish of fabric, yelp, clatter of plastic on concrete, and thud of a fist against flesh.

In an instant, Matt was on his feet, running along the rooftops toward the altercation. He bounded down a fire escape, sprinted down the block, then grabbed the mugger by the back of the shirt, yanked him away from his victim, shoved him into the street, and roundly kicked him in the ribs. The thug staggered and fell to the ground with a scrape and skitter of rivets and gravel on pavement. Matt drew himself to his full height, shoulders squared, facing the attacker.

The mugger scrambled to his feet with an obscenity, the motion punctuated by a gasp of pain, and fled.

As the retreating footsteps grew distant, Matt turned to the shakily panting form curled on the concrete with his back pressed against the brick behind him, the source of the metallic tang of blood hanging in the air. “Do you need a hospital?”

The man flinched then took a shaky breath. “No, I—” his voice cracked and he reached out to pat searchingly at the ground around him.

Matt took a step off to the man's side, his foot hit plastic, he picked up the cane, then knelt and handed it to its owner. Fingers brushed against Matt's through his gloves, unsteady but strong; they gripped the handle of the cane hard enough that the rubber of the grip shifted protestingly against the plastic beneath, though Matt doubted the other man could feel, let alone hear, it. “You're bleeding.”

“It's just a split lip.” He took a breath, hauled himself to his feet, but then wobbled. Matt put a steadying hand on his arm.

“Are you sure?” Matt couldn't help the pang of protective concern that shot through his stomach. The man with the cane was shorter than Matt, and he sounded like he might have been younger. He smelled of sawdust and paint, dust and sweat, blood and adrenalin, and his heart was beating under his ribs like a riled bird.

He nodded and shifted his grip on his cane. “I'm sure. But, uh, I really don't want to walk home alone.”

“I'll go with you.”

“You're that vigilante, aren't you?” There was an edge to his voice. He reached out to quickly run his fingers over Matt's armored bicep then quickly withdrew and took a small step away. “I'm not so sure I want you knowing where I live.”

“There's really no one else around,” Matt said carefully, “so if you don't want to walk alone, walking with me is your only option.”

He made an aborted sound in his throat that turned into a frustrated sigh. “I guess, you did just save me….”

Matt held out his arm and let his elbow brush against the man's. “Let me walk you.”

He cautiously gripped Matt's arm, short fingernails digging into the armor. “I live a couple blocks down. Five floor brick walkup with a glassed in lobby.”

Matt walked him the couple blocks and stopped at the corner just back from what he thought was the right building. “Here.”

“Yeah.” The man sighed. “Is there anybody in the lobby?”

Matt paused and leaned forward to listen. “There's a woman talking to the porter.”

The man sighed again. “Is it pathetic if I don't want to explain a split lip to my neighbors?”

Matt grinned a little. “Could always say you tripped. That's how I usually explain things away. One time I had to make up a car crash.”

“I could…. I don't know.”

“Where's your apartment?”

“Huh?”

“Where in the building is your apartment?” Matt clarified. “I'll help you in through the fire escape.”

“Fourth floor, back left corner if you're facing to the back of the building.”

“Alright.”

There being no one else on the street, Matt took the man across the street and around to the back left corner where he helped him carefully grope his way up the fire escape. Matt pulled a small knife from his belt to finagle the window latch, then pushed the window open—it stuck halfway with old paint. “There you go. Mind your head.”

“Note to self: replace window latches,” the shorter man muttered as he reached out to find the edge of the widow, ducked under it, and dropped the two-and-a-half feet to the hardwood floor inside. Matt was about to head back down—or the rest of the way up to the roof—when the man stuck his head back out the window. “Hey, thank you.”

“It's not a problem.” Matt's fingers twitched on the railing of the fire escape.

“Uh,” the voice faltered for a breath, “you just broke into my apartment way too easily and I just got jumped in a back ally so I'm feeling more than a little paranoid, and not that I don't trust my cat with my life, but I really don't want to be home alone with just her.”

Matt hesitated. “Do you want me to stay while you call a friend and wait for them?”

“Yes, please.”

“Step back.”

The man did and Matt ducked in through the window and closed it firmly. The room smelled strongly—but not strictly unpleasantly—of cat, though it lacked the dusty weight to the air that Matt associated with pet fur. It also smelled of linens, clean laundry, old sweat, and certain _other_ bodily fluids; the walls were plaster, the room was fairly small, and something large and low up against one wall was absorbing most of the noise in the room and keeping the hard walls and floor from echoing. A bed. This was the bedroom.

With a quiet metal _chk_ and a scrape of old hinges, the tenant pulled the door open and went into what, after a brief moment, Matt concluded was a livingroom. He followed.

“You can sit if you'd like,” the man offered. There was a faint clack as the he set his cane—folded from the trip up the fire escape—on a table by the front door on the other side of the room. His fingers brushed over the wall then flicked on the light. “Is that working? Or do I need to find a new bulb?”

“No, it's fine.” Matt sat carefully on the heavily pilled old couch. The ceilings sounded high enough that he wouldn't be able to feel the heat off a light fixture whether it were working or not.

“Okay, good. My cat likes to play with the switches so the bulbs sometimes burn out when I don't expect them to.” He sighed, then called, “C'mere, Venus.”

Matt didn't hear the cat until she jumped up on the coffee table in front of him, which severely unnerved him. She yowled, her owner scooped her up then went into the next room. There was the distinct sound of a refrigerator being opened, then the tinkle and clink of glass bottles and aluminum cans as fingers searched through them. “Do you want something to drink?”

Matt almost said no, then changed his mind. “Just water?”

“Sure thing.”

The fridge closed with a _thwunk_ , its contents rattled, a drawer ratcheted open, a cap came off with a hiss, the drawer slammed closed, a glass was pulled from a cabinet then filled with a smooth rush of water. The man came back, somehow juggling his cat, a bottle, and a cup. He set the cup on the table then settled in a chair across from Matt. He took a long drink from the bottle, put it on the table, fished out his phone, and dialed.

Matt sipped his water—filtered, cold—and listened. It rang several times then went to voicemail: “Hey, this is Caroline. I'm probably in rehearsal, asleep, or I hate you. Text me and I might call you back.”

He called someone else and got a “the number you are trying to reach is unavailable” recording.

The third number picked up. A male voice said, “Luke, I swear—” there was a grunt “—to God—” a woman moaned in the background “—if this is not the most fucking urgent thing.”

“Nevermind,” Luke said, and hung up. He cuddled his cat. “Shit.” He sighed.

“Have you got anyone else to call?” Matt asked cautiously.

“No one else who's reasonably nearby.” Luke shifted his weight a few times. “Have you got anywhere you really need to be until, like, five a.m?” he asked sheepishly.

“I do have a day job, so I should go home and sleep at some point.” Matt heard Luke hunch in his chair. He tapped a gloved finger against the glass of water. “But I can stay for a while.”

“Thank you,” Luke whispered. For a while things were quiet—quiet enough for Matt to hear the cat breathing. At least he could until she started purring. Luke sipped at his drink. “You know, it's weird, I know Fanta flavors more by color than by fruit but I know what the fruits are and I don't actually know what the colors are.”

“To be fair, they don't taste much like the fruit they're supposed to.”

“This does actually taste like pineapple.” The glass bottle clinked on the glass-top table when Luke put it down. “The red is supposed to be strawberry, though, I think, and it does not taste anything like real strawberries.”

“Artificial flavors never taste like what they're supposed to.” Matt grimaced.

“Well, orange things normally do taste like orange.”

Matt grinned despite himself. “The color or the fruit?”

“Yes.” Luke snorted and burrowed down into the corner of his chair. “And blue Poweraid _always_ tastes like blue.”

“But what is blue Poweraid even supposed to taste like?”

“I have no idea. I don't think I've ever been told what flavor it is, everyone just calls it blue.”

“Blue things are usually raspberry.”

“I don't think it's raspberry.” Luke yawned. “And I don't think—raspberries aren't blue are they?”

“Last time I checked, no, they're red. Sometimes gold. I liked golden raspberries as a kid.”

“So why is blue raspberry a flavor?”

“I have no idea.”

It was past four, but not yet five, in the morning and Luke had fallen asleep in his chair when Matt left. It was almost exactly five when he got home. He stripped his suit off, showered, shot Foggy an email that he'd be at the office after lunch, then fell into bed.


	2. Chapter 2

It had been a week since Matt had escorted Luke home, when he found himself on the roof of the brick walkup. He'd had a rough night—his knuckles were probably bruised, his ribs definitely were, his lip was split, and he was dizzy enough that he was worried he might pass out. He was _mostly_ sure the dizziness was from coming down off an adrenalin high and not from head trauma. In any case, he didn't particularly want to pass out on a roof—or end up in another dumpster—so he climbed down the fire escape and knocked at the fourth floor window. Inside, the cat yowled. Then, muffled through the glass, Matt heard Luke say, “What is it, Venus? What's out there?”

Venus yowled again, jumped up on the interior sill, and pawed at the window. Matt rapped his knuckles on the glass in a distinct pattern. A moment passed, Luke removed the pencil he'd jammed in the window latch as an impromptu lock, and opened the window about an inch. “Hello?”

“Hey, it's me.” Matt's voice sounded strained even to his own ears.

“Masked vigilante guy?”

“Yeah.”

“You sound like death.”

“I...ran into some more competent criminals than the jackass who jumped you.” His side twinged and he sucked in a breath. “Would you mind if I passed out on your couch?”

“Uh, sure….” Luke shoved the window as far open as he could. Matt climbed through and wobbled enough that he brushed into Luke, who grabbed his arm to steady him. “Hey, careful. Come here.” He pulled Matt through to the living room and pushed him gently onto the couch. “Are you okay?”

“I've had worse.” Matt touched his lip and his fingers came away wet, so he licked his lip to see if he tasted blood. He did.

“That isn't comforting.” Luke tentatively touched the side of Matt's face, concerned fingers brushed over the edge of the cowl and made their way across his face to his mouth. “Is that spit or blood?”

Matt sighed. “Blood.”

“Is it yours?”

“I think so.”

“You are not okay.” Luke stepped away, went into the kitchen, opened and closed a drawer, ran the faucet, returned, and gently dabbed at Matt's mouth with a damp cloth. Matt took the cloth from him to clean himself up. Luke let his hand fall away but hovered. “Do you need anything?”

“I'll be fine,” Matt said. His head throbbed and he amended, “Eventually.”

“I, I'm gonna make some tea,” Luke said. “Tea helps.” He returned to the kitchen.

Matt half-listened to the sounds of Luke making tea and lay back on the couch with a groan. A few minutes passed, then Luke set a teapot on the coffee table with the solid clack of ceramic on glass, gently prodded Matt to sit up, and pressed a mug of tea into his hands.

"Here, drink. It shouldn't be too hot."

"Thank you." Matt sipped the tea as Luke went off again. It was light, floral, and vaguely sweet. Camomile, he was pretty sure.

Luke returned with a plastic box which he set next to the teapot, then he sat on the edge of the table, clicked open the box, tore open a paper packet, and reached for Matt's face. "Where are you bleeding?"

"I think it's just a split lip."

" _Just_ a split lip," Luke muttered. He dabbed gently at Matt's mouth with a square of gauze, then with another dampened with disinfectant that surprisingly didn't sting, found the split near the corner of Matt's mouth, and closed it with a small butterfly bandage. His thin, strong fingers searched across Matt's face to the edges of his mask. "You're gonna bleed all over my couch, make my friends think I'm a serial killer."

"Or that you had a girl over," Matt offered feebly.

Luke snorted as he felt down Matt's neck to his chest. "I'm gay as the day is long, if anyone in that equation is bleeding from naughty places there's a serious problem." His fingers found a damp tear at the edge of the armor on Matt's chest. Matt sucked in a sharp breath. Luke sighed. "Take your shirt off."

"I really don't—"

"You're gonna take your shirt off, I'm gonna smack a bandaid on whatever cuts you've got, and you're gonna clean up my couch."

Matt hesitated, then took off the top of his suit. "There aren't any bloodstains on your couch."

"There'd better not be." Luke felt for the cut under Matt's collarbone, his fingers cool against Matt's skin. He found the gash, which was long but shallow, pumped foaming disinfectant on it, then taped gauze over it. He felt over the rest of Matt's chest, fingers pausing on the raised scars on his right pec. "Are these old?"

"Yeah. I'm fine, really."

"Like hell you are."

Half a dozen small bandages later, Luke was satisfied that Matt wasn't going to bleed out. He draped the couch with towels. "There. Get some rest. Venus, make sure he doesn't stop breathing."

Matt lay back with a groan. He didn't mean to fall asleep. He startled awake hours later and momentarily panicked at a presence sitting on his chest—then it meowed.

“Stupid cat,” he muttered. He picked her up and set her on the floor as he sat up. He grimaced at the feeling of her, something like a warm wrinkly peach. She was a hairless. That accounted for the lack of fluff and dust in the apartment. She meowed again, louder.

“I'm breathing,” he assured her. He picked up his shirt, put it on, and stretched gingerly. Several things popped. He carefully, quietly went into the bedroom, where Luke was asleep.

As Matt went to open the window, Venus jumped onto the bed. Luke stirred. The window squeaked. Luke pushed up on an elbow. “You leavin'?”

“Yeah.” Matt pushed the window the rest of the way open.

“Mkay.” Luke yawned and rolled over. “Close the window once you're out,” he mumbled. “Come back if you need bandaids and tea.”

Matt paused long enough to hear Luke's breathing even back into sleep, climbed out, and closed the window behind himself.

 

~*~

 

A week later, Matt ducked into a glassless upper floor window of a construction site to catch his breath just as the police arrived. Below, the cops had a dozen pimps to arrest—many of them knocked out or broken legged—and three times as many working girls to get into rehab. Angry shouting broke out on the ground in a combination of Spanish and Vietnamese. Matt decided that was his cue to leave. He stopped on his way home then changed course, arrived at the familiar brick walkup, and climbed to the fourth floor. He tried to open the window, but it had been replaced. It no longer slid up, it had two large vertical panes and a thick frame with a lock in the middle like a scaled down sliding door. He could hear music inside and Luke singing, so Matt knocked sharply. The music paused. Matt knocked again. “Luke?”

Luke came to the window, the lock clicked, and he slid the window open sideways. “Hey.”

“You replaced your window.”

“Yeah. I got one that random dudes running around the city in tights can't pick open like it's nothing.”

“Good idea. Thought I'd take you up on that tea.”

“Sure.” Luke stepped back to let Matt in, then walked to the kitchen with Matt following. “What kind of tea?”

“I'm not picky.” Matt rolled his neck and grunted.

“Long night?” Luke asked as he filled his electric kettle.

“Yeah.”

“Bleeding?” he asked accusatorially.

“Not this time.” Matt chuckled softly.

Luke turned around to lean against the counter. “'Cause you did, in fact, leave bloodstains on my couch. My best friend saw them and started getting belligerently protective because she thought I'd hurt myself. I told her I'd helped out a neighbor.”

Matt grimaced. “Sorry.”

“No more bleeding on my furniture.”

“Okay.”

“Promise.”

“I promise.”

“Good vigilante.” The cat jumped up on the counter and Luke petted her.

Matt snorted. They were quiet as the kettle started to roar. As Luke poured the water into a teapot with a tea ball, Matt asked. “What were you singing?”

“The _Jesus Christ Superstar_ soundtrack.” Luke replaced the kettle on its base and put the lid on the teapot. “I'm in my school's production.”

“Are you a Conservatory student?”

“Bah, I wish. I applied and was rejected. I'm in Tisch at NYU.”

“Oh.”

Venus padded across the counter and rubbed roughly up against Matt's arm. Matt patted her.

“She likes you,” Luke said softly. As if to agree, Venus started to purr.

Matt snorted. “So NYU's doing _Jesus Christ Superstar_?”

“Yeah. You know the show?”

“Not exactly,” Matt hedged. “My familiarity with it is limited to eavesdropping on nuns complaining about all the heresy and blasphemy in it.”

For a heartbeat, things were still. Then Luke laughed. “ _Nuns_?”

Matt laughed too. “I grew up Catholic.”

“No kidding.” Luke shook his head and turned to get two mugs down from the cabinet. “I'll admit to only having gone to church twice in my life—once for a friend's confirmation, once for class—but I know the relevant scripture well enough to say that the show actually plays things pretty straight.” He carefully poured them each tea. “One thing I've always appreciated about _Superstar_ is that it manages to make the entire situation seem, not exactly inevitable, but not really any one person's fault. Everybody's just trying to do the right thing, problem is, their ideas about what 'the right thing' is are all in conflict. But no one is evil.”

“Even Judas?” Matt asked skeptically.

“Oh, especially Judas. Here.” Luke held out a mug for Matt, who accepted it. “The closest thing the show has to a villain is actually Herod, because he's mostly acting out of selfishness and greed for power, at least as written. Judas, though, is acting out of an urge for self preservation and to protect Jesus. He's worried that Jesus is, essentially, getting too big for his britches and endangering himself and his disciples, so he goes to the priests to try to get Jesus to tone it down. Of course, that doesn't go as planned, and you know how this story ends.” Luke sipped his tea.

“Yeah.” Matt turned his mug in his hands. “Who are you playing?”

“Simon. Largely because I can hit the high note at the end of his one, zealous, warmongering song without hurting myself.” He sighed. “I auditioned for Judas. He doubles as narrator, so in a lot of ways he's more the lead role than even Jesus is, which means a lot of actors covet the role. I could do it, I have the range, I've known all his songs since high school, and I know I'm a good enough actor to carry a show, but directors are always so hesitant to cast the blind kid.”

“That's ridiculous,” Matt said. “This is what you're going to school for.”

“I know.” Luke huffed. “I've been doing theatre since I was a kid, and I hang around the school theatre enough that I don't think I'd walk into or off anything even if I were wasted. There is no good reason for them not to cast me. They'll never admit it, because they don't want to sound like ableist bags of dicks, but really it's just that they don't want to cast the blind kid 'cause they're worried I _can't_ do it. It's bullshit.”

“That's complete bullshit.”

“I know!” Luke put his mug down hard. “Don't get me wrong, I'm glad to be Simon, and I'm also ensemble for some numbers, and this is a fun show to be ensemble in—I get to be a leper—it just gets really old.”

“People can be really awful to others for being different,” Matt said quietly. “Worst part is they don't even realize they're doing it.”

Luke picked his tea back up and turned it in his hands. “Is that why you do what you do, running around in a mask, beating up criminals like an under-funded Batman?”

Matt couldn't help but laugh. “I wish I had that kind of money. Of course, Tony Stark is closest thing real life has to Bruce Wayne, but Stark doesn't do the back ally thing. Guess that's why I've got that gig.” He sighed. “But yeah. People can be awful, everyone can and there's no way to stop that, but there's a limit. There are things I just can't let people get away with.”

“I'm glad that's true,” Juke said softly. “I dunno what woulda happened to me if it weren't for you. And I'm glad to have met you.”

Matt smiled, flattered. “I'm glad to have met you too.”


	3. Chapter 3

The next time Matt made his way to Luke's walkup, the theatre student wasn't home. Matt sat on the fire escape and listened. Down Thirty-Sixth Street, he could hear two sets of footsteps, two voices talking and laughing though he couldn't make out the words, and the tapping of a guide cane. Matt listened as the two came closer, it was Luke and a girl. While they mounted the stairs, Matt pulled himself partway up to the next level of the fire escape so the girl wouldn't see him if she happened to look out the window. He heard the lock click when Luke let himself and the girl into his apartment. She laughed. “Oh, no. Venus turned the lights on again.”

Luke groaned. “Venus, no.”

The cat meowed loudly. Matt almost thought she sounded proud of herself. But she was just a cat, and that was ridiculous. The girl set down a bag and sprawled across Luke's couch. “Had any more vampire neighbors over for tea?” she teased.

“No,” Luke said sharply. The couch creaked—judging by the awkward croaking sound the girl made, Luke had sat directly on her. “I'm honestly pretty proud there aren't mysterious and disturbing stains on my stuff more often.”

“Fair point,” she said breathlessly, then shoved Luke off of her onto the floor with a heavy _thwunk_. They both laughed. “Lemme steal a soda?

“Sure thing. Grab me one too?”

“Anything for you, love,” she sing-songed. There were footsteps, the fridge rattled, caps hissed. The girl walked back to the couch and set a glass bottle on the table. “I'ma go home. See you tomorrow.”

“Good night, Caroline,” Luke said fondly.

“Night, Luke.”

Matt waited until the girl, Caroline, was halfway down the stairs before dropping back down to the right level of the fire escape and knocking at the window. He heard Luke curse. When he shoved the window open he demanded. “How long have you been out here?”

“Since before you got home.”

“What the hell, man? You've just been sitting on my fire escape?”

“Not for long. You were already coming down the street when I got here.”

“You're crazy.” Luke laughed incredulously and stepped back to let him in. “Who the hell just sits on people's fire escapes at, what is it, one in the morning?”

“It's no where near the strangest thing I do with my time.”

Luke sighed. “That's true.” He shoved the window closed and locked it. He paused a moment, then went around to the nightstand next to his bed. “You know what—” he dug through the drawer “—I'm just gonna give you a key to the damn window.” He held out something that jangled softly. “No more perching on my fire escape like a creeper.”

Matt reached out and carefully grabbed just the key where it hung from Luke's fingers. “Thank you, but you really don't have—”

“You're here just about once a week,” Luke said pointedly

“Right.” Matt pocketed the key.

“I was helping with load in for another show, so I've got a fine layer of theatre grime all over me. You're welcome to hang out, talk to Venus, have a soda, whatever—but I've got to shower. I'll make it quick.”

With that, he shut himself into the bathroom, leaving Matt unsupervised in his apartment. Between this and the key, Matt was thoroughly taken aback by the amount of trust Luke was exhibiting—taken aback but flattered, and maybe a little concerned for Luke's sanity. He heard the fly on Luke's pants unzip and took that as his cue to distract himself with the cat and the fridge. When Luke came back from showering, he smelled strongly of sandalwood and lemongrass, but the sawdust and paint smells of the theatre lingered faintly on him. Matt was sipping a glass bottled soda while letting Venus wrestle his gloved hand. She'd managed to mostly wrap herself around his arm.

“Hey,” Luke said as he sat on the coffee table, feeling to make sure he didn't knock over his own soda from earlier.

“Hey,” Matt responded and carefully disengaged the cat's claws from his sleeve. “Any particular reason all your sodas are in glass bottles?”

“I dunno, I just like 'em better.” Luke chuckled. “I think they taste better, especially the Coke products imported from Mexico.” Venus leapt up into his lap and he petted her.

“That's fair,” Matt said. “I know there are things I tend to have just because I prefer them that seem pretentious.”

“Oh, are glass bottles pretentious now?” Luke scoffed playfully as the cat slunk off.

“Just a little,” Matt teased.

“What do you have?”

“Uh, silk sheets?”

Luke laughed, Matt smiled. “Silk sheets are way more pretentious than glass bottles,” Luke said firmly. “Who are you trying to impress with those?”

Matt snorted. “No one's been around to be impressed by them in quite a while.”

Luke hummed. “Too busy punching crime in the face?”

“Something like that,” Matt chuckled. “You know, my best friend uses the exact same phrasing.”

“Great minds, and all that.” Luke leaned his elbows on his knees. “You're too busy to have anyone around to admire your fancy schmancy sheets, but not too busy to have fancy schmancy soda with me.”

“So it seems,” Matt agreed. He could hear that Luke's heartbeat and breathing had quickened—the laughing was probably to blame as Matt's own pulse and breathing had done the same.

“Just for the record,” Luke said playfully, “I, for one, would be super impressed by silk sheets.”

Matt chuckled and took a sip of his soda. “Well, the imported sodas aren't too shabby either.”

“Thanks.” Luke held out his bottle, head tipped to the side. Matt reached out to clink his bottle against Luke's.


	4. Chapter 4

It had seemed like a good night to go out in the mask, then the rain started. Matt finished the most urgent part of what he was doing without getting pistol whipped, then turned to head back up to Hell's Kitchen. Luke's apartment was closer than his. He could hear Luke inside as he climbed the fire escape. The window rattled as he unlocked it. Luke came over as Matt climbed in. “You were out there in the rain?” he asked, astonished.

“Yeah.” Matt could feel himself dripping onto the wood floor. “Can I borrow some towels?”

“Sure, yeah, sure.”

Matt shut the window, pushed his cowl back, stripped off his gloves, and lay them on the corner of the dresser while Luke fetched towels. He thanked Luke when he returned laden with a stack of thick, soft towels. His fingers brushed against Luke's arm as he grabbed a towel for his hair, damp from what rain had soaked through his cowl.

“Your fingers are freezing.” Luke set the stack aside, grabbed one off the top, and started rubbing it over whatever of Matt he could easily reach.

“It's fifty-something degrees out there, and I'm wet. This thing's soaked, here.” He unfastened the belt at his waist, popped the snaps underneath it that held the top half of his suit to the bottom, pulled the upper half and the sopping tanktop off over his head, and dropped it on the floor.

Luke draped the towel around Matt's shoulders, smoothed it town, then ducked his head as his pulse quickened and his face heated. “Sorry, uh….” He handed Matt another towel and stepped back. “Do you want me to put your stuff in the dryer, or does it have to drip dry?”

“I'm pretty sure the dryer is bad for the suit,” Matt said slowly, stooping to unlace his squelshing boots. “It didn't exactly come with a care tag so I err on the side of caution.”

“Makes sense.”

“Everything I've got on under it is cotton, though.”

“I can dry that, if you want,” Luke offered. “And hang the other stuff up to drip dry.” He picked the shirts up from the floor.

Matt hesitated a little longer than could go unnoticed, then quickly wrapped a towel around himself and stripped the rest of his clothes, mentally reminding himself that Luke could neither see him, nor 'see' him the way Matt could. He handed Luke the drenched wad of fabric. “Thank you.”

“No problem.”

Matt could hear Luke's heart beating against his ribs as he left the room and crossed the tiny living room and the kitchen to the miniscule laundry room he had tucked into a closet. He put a hand over his chest, under the towel, where his own heart was hammering a little overzealously. It worried him. He hadn't even run up the fire escape.

“Can I borrow some clothes?” Matt called, once he heard the dryer start.

“Yeah, uh….” Luke came back into the room and went to feel through his closet. “I'm short and skinny and you're, well, not, so I'm not sure what I have that'd fit you. I mean, you could walk around naked for all I'd care, I mean, not that I'd know the difference.”

“I think you could tell the difference.”

“Yeah, I could,” Luke admitted. “Hm, there's this.” He held something out to Matt.

He took it from Luke and ran it through his fingers. It was a T-shirt, worn soft with age, silkscreened with an image of a tree.

“I tend to just sleep in it since it's too big. And, uh,” Luke crossed to the dresser, dug through the second to bottom drawer, and held out something else, “I may or may not have stolen these from the dorm laundry room my freshman year.”

Matt took the proffered pajama pants. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Luke said lightly. “I'll—I'll make some tea, it's good weather for tea.” He slipped from the bedroom back across to the kitchen.

“Do you need any help with that?” Matt offered as he donned the pilfered trousers.

“No, I can make tea by myself. Do it nearly every day. You've seen me do it. I'm blind, not a child,” Luke responded, voice low with frustration, over the tinkles, clatters, and drips of the tea-making process. “Hell, I could make tea by myself as a blind child at age nine,” he added in a grumble.

Matt cringed. “That's not what I meant, I'm sorry.”

“I know.” Luke sighed as Matt came into the kitchen, still pulling the tree-emblazoned shirt on. He tapped his finger against his heavy glass teapot. “I shouldn't have snapped, it just gets old.”

“Don't worry, I understand.”

Luke snorted derisively but didn't challenge the statement. He finished making the tea and poured himself and Matt each a mug. “Here.” He held one out, waited for Matt to take it, then went to sit on the couch. “Do I want to know what you were doing when you got caught out in the rain?”

“Probably not.” Matt sat next to him.

“You're not hurt, are you?” Luke's fingers, warm from holding his mug, brushed against the rain-chilled skin of Matt's arm as he abortively reached out to him.

“No, no, I'm fine,” Matt assured him then ran his hand over his own arm, warding away the goosebumps that had risen there. “I'd actually rather talk about anything other than what I've been up to tonight.”

“Well,” Luke mused, “I can tell you about my friend's made-up-ten-minutes-before-class presentation in my script analysis class.”

“Yeah? How did that go?”

“ _Horribly_.” Luke laughed. The sound made Matt smile. “Everyone could tell he was bullshitting. I don't think he even read the play.”

“What play was it?”

Luke leaned forward and pulled a sheaf of heavy paper toward him across the table, picked it up, and flipped through it. “Shakespeare's _Othello_.”

“May I?” Matt touched the corner of the script Luke was holding.

“Can you even read Braille?” Luke asked as he handed it to Matt.

“I picked it up as a kid.” Matt ran his fingers over the cover, then flipped a few pages in to trace along one of Iago's monologues.

“Did you know someone?”

“Hm?”

“Someone blind?”

“Oh. Yeah. Old guy who used to buy me ice cream.”

“That's sweet,” Luke said softly.

“He's kind of a dick, but he was there when I needed him most, I guess.”

Luke hummed then was quiet a while. “Would you mind,” he began cautiously, “if I touched your face?”

“Haven't you already?” Matt asked automatically.

“You were wearing your mask the first time, and I was a little preoccupied with figuring out where to stick bandaids….”

“Right.” Matt gave an awkward half-laugh. “I didn't think about that. Uh, yeah, go ahead.”

“Thank you,” Luke said quietly. He put his tea down on the table then reached out, fingers first making contact with Matt's chest through the thin fabric of his borrowed shirt before tracing up the line of his throat and jaw to his face. Matt closed his eyes as Luke's fingers brushed lightly over his cheekbone, then slowly up over his brow, down his nose, across his lips, and along his other cheekbone to repeat the gesture in mirror. Luke was leaning close to Matt; the heat of his body and the earthy scent of him—his skin, the tea on his breath, the ever-present aromas of sawdust and sandalwood—washed over Matt, enveloping him. Matt's lips parted as Luke's fingers passed over them again and he inhaled, filling his lungs with heady warmth. His heart raced. Luke's fingers found their way into his hair and Matt's mind was only barely coherent enough to wonder what they were doing there before Luke filled the space between them, his mouth on Matt's, insistent and supple. Matt's hand found Luke's waist and pulled him closer, coaxing the younger man into his lap. He snaked his arms around Matt's neck and drew himself up on his knees to match their heights.

Matt felt like he was burning; his senses over-stimulated, leaving him lost in a whirlwind of touch and taste, sound and smell. The clock ticked on in the kitchen, yet he maintained no notion of time as Luke's fingers tugged at his hair, ran over his body, and left lingering trails of electric agitation in their wake. Luke's body pressed against his—firm, angular, foreign in its familiarity—and Matt turned his head away, desperate for breath. He felt like he was drowning.

The soft, warm lips gave up his mouth as he gasped and settled where his pulse pounded in his throat. A palm cupped his ribs, a thumb skirted the line of a scar, and the rough synthetic of Luke's shirt grated against Matt's nerves where the soft cotton had been pushed aside. Skin felt better than cloth. The shirts were better off where they landed on the floor.

Luke stepped back off the couch and Matt groaned in protest at the loss of his warmth, but hands caught his and pulled him to his feet—back against the hot, smooth skin; the solid, muscular chest. Fingers looped under his waistband and led him, stumbling, into the next room to fall haplessly onto the low, stiff mattress in a tangle of limbs. Matt caught himself on his elbows, suddenly crouched over the prone body beneath him. A hand at his nape yanked his head down into a crushing kiss, which he returned, and a knee hooked over his hip. Luke arched up against him, every inch of contact searing, pressed their still-clothed forms together, and rolled his hips. Matt's breath stuck in his throat as a lightning jolt radiated from the base of his spine and prickled the back of his neck. Matt's breath dropped in the form of a muffled moan from his mouth into Luke's. Matt grabbed Luke's arm hard enough to make him whine, ground against him in visceral need, and drew a feral sound of encouragement from his chest.

The scent of him had changed—turned sharper, saltier, muskier. His blunt nails scrabbled at Matt's lower back, not enough to hurt, but enough to set nerves alight. Matt's ears and mind filled with the harshness of their breathing, their soft sounds of pleasure as they moved against one another. Luke stretched underneath him, reaching for something while Matt's mouth worked at his throat. Wood scraped against wood, Luke grabbed what he'd been reaching for, mouthed and kissed at Matt's throat, then clung tightly to him for a moment, lifting his own hips off the bed enough to tug his pants down, and pressed their bodies together in the process. A cap clicked, a plasticine smell joined those of sweat and skin, teeth scraped tantalizingly along Matt's jaw as the body beneath him arched awkwardly and he lost track of one of Luke's hands. When, uncounted heartbeats later, Matt's borrowed trousers were pulled out of the way and sure, silk-slick fingers caressed him where his pulse pounded and he was most sensitive, his breath hissed through his teeth against the shorn short tickle of hair behind Luke's ear. Guiding hands—one on his hip, one caressing lower—drew Matt in. The rush of unity overwhelmed him for a breath, stilling him a moment before instinct seized him again. As he moved in tandem with the lithe body beneath him, electric ecstasy crackling along his nerves, for a moment he'd have sworn he could see.

 

Matt was woken by a cat pawing at his hair, sniffing his face, velveteen nose occasionally bumping against his cheek. The sheets he was tangled in were rough cotton. He was naked. Another body was twined with his, warm and solid, head resting against his shoulder, breath ghosting lightly over his bare chest. Matt sat up quickly. Luke groaned sleepily, curled around Matt's back, and looped his arms around his waist. The hair at Matt's nape stood on end and he shivered. Venus yowled at him. He broke out of Luke's embrace, kicked his way out of the tangle of blankets, stumbled off the mattress onto the wood floor, and began to hunt around for his sweatpants.

Luke had sat up. “Where're you goin'?” he asked blearily.

Matt didn't answer. He found the pants wadded up against the door, pulled them on, and headed for the livingroom to find his shirt.

Bedsheet wrapped around his waist and dragging the floor, Luke followed him. “Hey?”

“I need to go,” Matt said sharply as he passed into the kitchen.

“No, you can stay,” Luke insisted.

Matt ignored him. He grabbed a reusable shopping bag from the counter, fetched his things from the laundry, stuffed his feet into his boots, then headed back toward the bedroom, brushing past Luke as he did.

“You can stay!” Luke shouted, trying and failing to grab at Matt's arm. His fingers closed on empty air as Matt pushed open the window and hastened away down the fire escape.

Matt hurried in the direction of his apartment, cursing himself internally the whole way. He was almost there, one foot on the front steps of his building when a familiar voice spoke unexpectedly in front of him.

“There you are,” Foggy said. “Couldn't raise you so I came by, was starting to get worried when you weren't home. Wow, you look like you woke up at a frat house.”

Matt huffed and pushed past him. “I'm fine.”

Foggy started following Matt up to his apartment, much to Matt's dismay. “You don't have your cane.”

“No, I don't,” Matt agreed tersely.

“And you don't have a bagel so I'm assuming you didn't go for breakfast.”

“I'm just now getting home.”

“Were you out risking disbarment all night?” Foggy hissed.

“No.” Matt fished through his bag in his armor pockets, hunting for his keys. He found them and unlocked his door.

“Then why are you only just now getting back? It's almost ten. Were you in the hospital? Did you land your ass in the hospital?”

“No!” Matt huffed. “I was out, I got rained on, so I stayed with somebody I know. Now, if you'll excuse me, I am disgusting and need to shower.” He shut the door on Foggy, flicked the bolt closed, dropped his bag on the couch, and stalked to the bathroom.

He could hear Foggy banging on his door, so he turned on the stereo in his bedroom as loud as he could stand it, then returned to the bathroom and started the shower. He stripped, tossed the borrowed clothes viciously across the small room, and got into the shower, leaving the water just to the uncomfortable side of too hot. For a long moment he stood still, the spray stinging against his back. He batted the shower curtain out of the way, stalked across the room dripping on the tile, snatched the gag-gift bat-shaped loofa he never used from the towel rack, stepped back into shower, and started to scrub. He grit his teeth at the rough plastic netting and scrubbed harder. He kept at it until the water went cold. He stopped, dropped the loofa, punched the knob in to shut off the water, then stood there dripping. There was a lull in the music between songs that allowed him to hear Foggy still at the door, “Matt, I swear to God as damn serious as you swear to God, you can't keep pulling this shit. Matt, talk to me, buddy.”

Matt sighed, pulled clean clothes on without really bothering to dry off, and went to yank the front door open. “What?”

“Lack of _communication_.” Foggy drew the word out into syllables. He nudged Matt back a step, came inside, and shut the door. “We agreed you'd let me know when you go out in the mask so if something happens I can actually try to fucking help. You were out last night and you did not tell me—”

“I couldn't sleep. I wasn't planning on going out. I forgot to let you know.”

“—and now you're actively avoiding talking to me.”

“I'm talking to you right now.”

“You slammed the door in my face.”

“I needed to shower.”

“We shared a dorm room, Matthew. Me being in the next room while you shower is not weird for either of us.”

Matt dug his fingers through his wet hair. “Shit happened last night that I'm not proud of that I don't want to talk or think about, okay?”

Foggy went still and his pulse spiked. “Holy shit. Did you kill somebody?”

“No! I—fuck.” Matt went to his fridge, grabbed a beer, opened it, and took a long drink. “I did not kill anyone.”

“Then what the hell happened?”

“It wasn't illegal—”

“Are you sure?”

“It hasn't been illegal in the state of New York since the eighties; I don't want to talk about it.”

Foggy sighed. “Are you coming to the office?”

“Later, yeah.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

“Okay. But fucking tell me when you're gonna go do parkour and punch crime in the face.”

“I know, I'm sorry, I forgot.” Matt leaned on his counter. “You go, make sure Karen knows we're both alive. I'll come in once I'm publicly presentable.”

“Okay. Don't forget we have to prep for that hearing Thursday. That's day after tomorrow, if you've lost track.”

“I read the entire file again last night before I went out. If the case makes it to trial, I'll eat my cane.”

“Yeah.” Foggy cocked his head to the side. “You really _couldn't_ sleep, could you?”

“Non-twenty-four is a bitch.”

“Right, well, I guess I'll see you at the office.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

Foggy let himself out. Matt dejectedly found a Hot Pocket and microwaved it. Once he'd eaten and gotten dressed, he went to the office and the day passed uneventfully. So did Wednesday. Thursday, their case—predictably—got thrown out. Friday, as she settled next to him with a fresh mug of coffee at their little second hand conference table, Karen asked, “Matt, are you feeling okay? It's Friday, and your workload just vanished but you're still, just, blah.”

“Yeah, I'm fine.” Matt took off his glasses and fiddled with them. “It's just...been a long week.”

“That is code for 'he needs Jesus and doesn't want to say why,'” Foggy said through a mouth full of french fries.

Matt sighed. Karen shrugged. “That's fair.”

“I keep telling him that the generic alternative to name-brand Jesus is booze, but he never takes me up on it,” Foggy said.

“You're also the one who decided I should never get actually drunk in public ever again,” Matt pointed out.

“Not _that_ drunk, no.” Foggy tipped his chair back. “But a little drunk is okay.”

“I think I want to hear the story behind this,” Karen said over her coffee.

“No, you really don't—”

“He gets punchy drunk shortly before he gets pass-out drunk. The punching comes after the hard core Catholic guilt and angst, which itself is one sip after adorable happy drunk, which happens right around a beer and a half more than you've ever seen him drink.”

“That,” Matt said slowly, “is sadly accurate.” He got up from his chair. “But I think I'll pass.”

The front legs of Foggy's chair returned to the floor with a loud clack. “Are you going to go hide in your room with audiobooks and tea until Sunday?”

“Probably.” He pulled on his jacket, grabbed his briefcase and cane, and left.


	5. Chapter 5

Matt always wondered if the confessional only reeked of stress sweat to him, or if the stench of shame was strong enough for everyone to smell. He took a breath and crossed himself. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been a week since my last confession. I, uh, I beat up a mugger, threw a guy into the east river—but he was going to shoot his girlfriend and I'm pretty sure he could swim and the gun sank, so that's good—I lied, uh, too many times, I think I accidentally stole a pair of sweatpants and a shirt from—” he faltered “—from, well, I, uh, he let me borrow them because I got rained on, but then we had sex so I took them off and then the next morning I put them back on and left, but I don't know if he meant for me to take them so I might have stolen clothes because I also committed sodomy.” He cringed.

“Well,” Father Lantom mused, “at least that last one's been decriminalized. The rest…mostly still illegal.”

“The mugger and the guy who wound up in the east river would both be easy self defense cases.”

“This is why people joke about there being a special circle in Hell for lawyers, Mathew,” Father Lantom said. “And you know that's beside the point.”

“I know,” Matt said quietly.

“And beating up muggers and throwing people in the East River is fairly mundane for you.”

“That doesn't mean I'm not repentant for hurting—”

“I know, and I know you do those things for the greater good, and by now I'm sure you've memorized what your penance for it is.”

“Yes, Father.”

“So, let's talk about what you're actually seeking absolution for.”

Matt lowered his head and sighed.

“The man you slept with, do you know him?”

“Yes.” Matt ran a hand over his face. “Not well, but I do know him.”

“Was it consensual?”

Matt paused. “Who are you asking about?”

“Both of you.”

“Yes.”

“So it wasn't rape. In which case, you shouldn't be doing that but—despite what some in the Church may say—I don't think you've done anything too egregious by sleeping with a man. And if it was only this one time—”

“Yes, Father.”

“Then I really don't think you should beat yourself up about it. No more than you do about anything else, at least.”

Matt chewed his lip and stayed quiet.

“In addition to the usual, say four Our Fathers and two Hail Marys.”

“Yes, Father.”

“And Mathew?”

“Yes?”

“Give the sweatpants and shirt back.”

“Yes, Father.”

 

~*~

 

It took Matt four weeks to talk himself into returning to the brick walk up on the border between Hell's Kitchen and Chelsea. He could tell before he climbed through the window that Luke was in the room. Almost the moment his feet were solidly on the floor, Luke had bounded up to him and wrapped him in a hug. “Hey,” he said brightly. “I was starting to think you'd forgotten where I live.”

Matt shrugged and gently but firmly disengaged from the hug. Luke stepped back and crossed his arms over his chest, shoulders hunched. “This is weird now, huh?”

Matt nodded. Half a breath later he said, “Sorry. I nodded.”

“Right.”

“Uh.” Matt slung the pack off his shoulder, removed the neatly folded shirt and pants from it, and held them out for Luke, making sure to lightly brush the fabric against Luke's arm. “These are yours. I washed them.”

“Thanks.” Luke took the clean laundry, set it on the dresser behind him, and patted it a couple times. “Are we gonna talk about the fact we—?”

“No.”

“Right….” Luke fidgeted. “Can I just ask one thing?”

Matt hesitated. “Is it important?”

“Yes.”

“Then, yes.”

“Do you have HIV?”

The quiet words felt like a punch to the throat. Matt grabbed the windowsill. It took him a few tries before he was able too draw enough breath to choke out his answer, “No. Definitely not.”

Luke let out a heavy sigh of relief and even from several feet away, Matt could feel the tension drain from the younger man. “That's good,” Luke said with a false cheeriness that rang especially hollow compared to his excitement when Matt had arrived. “So, uh, you want some tea?”

“Sure.”

“Yeah, I'll make some tea.” Luke left the room, his sock-feet swishing softly on the floor. Venus padded in and hopped up on the dresser, making the drawers rattle. The fine hairs at Matt's nape stood on end, a good indication that the cat was staring at him. He reached a hand toward her, she hissed, and he withdrew, frowning.

Matt followed cautiously into the kitchen and listened to the sounds of Luke making tea. Neither of them spoke. Luke wordlessly held out a mug for Matt and waited. When he took it, Luke picked up his own mug and went to sit on the couch. Matt sat in the chair across from him.

Luke was nearly halfway through his tea when he whispered, “I'm glad you came back.”

“I had to return your clothes.”

“Yeah, well….” Luke trailed off. “You're still welcome for tea and bandaids if you need them.”

“Thank you.”

“No problem.”

The sat across from each other and finished their tea. Neither of them got up to pour more. The clock in the kitchen ticked. The pipes in the wall rattled as a neighbor turned on their faucet. The cat breathed quickly from her perch atop a shelf, her tail thwicking against the books. When Matt put down his mug, the tack of stoneware on glass felt deafening. “I should go home.”

Luke nodded and put his own mug down next to Matt's. He followed Matt to the bedroom window. Matt had just started to slide it open when Luke murmured, “Hey, I know you don't wanna talk about it, but...I had a good time.”

Matt stopped, hand on the window frame. Standing behind him, Luke shifted his weight from foot to foot. Matt grunted an acknowledgement.

“Come back soon, okay?” Luke asked timidly.

“Okay,” Matt murmured, then climbed out.


	6. Chapter 6

Matt resumed his roughly weekly visits to Luke. By the third time, things were less stilted and Venus had stopped hissing at Matt. A week after that, Matt—having decided a narrowly avoided gunshot was God's way of telling him to hang it up for the night—found himself on Luke's fire escape. There was no one inside but the cat. Matt put a hand on the window, then on the rail, ready to jump down, but he paused. Inside, the light switch clicked over and over as Venus batted at it. Matt turned his face to the sky, fished the key out of his belt, and let himself in. He closed and locked the window behind him, then sat crosslegged on the floor to wait and meditate. After a while, Venus got bored with the light switch and padded over to use Matt as a jungle gym. Then she got bored with that and dove into Luke's closet to wrestle with a shoe.

It was two in the morning before Luke got home. He dropped a bag unceremoniously by the door. Matt got to his feet and walked to the bedroom door, footsteps intentionally heavy. Luke stopped where he was. “Daredevil?”

“That's me,” Matt said softly.

Luke laughed quietly and walked toward him clumsily. “Hey.” He sounded happy but tired. He reached out to find Matt, his fingers brushed against him, and he stepped close to lean his forehead on Matt's chest. Matt stiffened uncomfortably, but Luke didn't seem to notice. “Hope you haven't been here too long,” he murmured. “Tonight was a show night.”

Matt gently prodded Luke back upright. “How'd that go?”

“Awesome,” Luke said proudly. “You should come tomorrow. Tickets are only like eight bucks. There's a Saturday matinee too.”

“I don't think it would be a good idea for me to be around as a civilian,” Matt said slowly.

“You don't have to talk to me,” Luke responded quickly. “I don't ever have to know you're there. I'd really appreciate it though.”

Matt sighed. “I'll see if I can make it.”

“Thank you,” Luke said earnestly. He took Matt's hand in both of his own and leaned on him again.

“I think you need to go to bed.”

“I'm fine.” Luke turned his face up toward Matt. “You've been waiting, we can hang out.”

“You said you've got another show tomorrow,” Matt pointed out. “You should sleep. I can come back some other time.”

“Okay,” Luke said reluctantly. He stepped away from Matt, went to his dresser, pulled out something soft to sleep in, shed his clothes and dropped them in the hamper next to the dresser.

“I should go,” Matt said.

“Wait just a second?” Luke asked, pulling on his nightshirt.

“I don't want to intrude.”

“I'm a theatre kid, changing in front of people doesn't bother me, and I'm definitely not uncomfortable with you.”

Matt cleared his throat.

“I like having you around okay?” Luke sighed. “Just hang out til I go to bed, please?”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Thank you.”

 

~*~

 

Matt yawned as he, Foggy, and Karen walked out of the courthouse. Karen rubbed his arm. “You okay, Matt? You seem tired.”

“I'm fine. Long night, long day.” Matt loosened his tie.

“I probably don't wan't to know what you were up to last night,” Foggy said, “but I'll second you on the long day bit.” He stretched. “At least Mr. Banneker isn't going to jail.”

“Yeah.” Matt deftly skirted the chipped spot on the third stair from the bottom. “Hey, uh,” he began, thinking of something, “how would the two of you feel about going to a play tonight?”

“Huh?” Karen said, at the same time Foggy asked, “Are you serious?”

Matt shrugged. “NYU is doing _Jesus Christ Superstar_ tonight. I used to hear nuns arguing about the show and whether or not it's blasphemous.” He smirked. “I'm curious.”

Karen and Foggy turned toward each other. Foggy shrugged. Karen looped an arm through Matt's. “I'm an Andrew Lloyd Webber fan, I'm in.”

“I'm in too,” Foggy said. “Let's get pizza first.”

“Okay,” the others agreed.

That night, the three of them filed in to the NYU theatre. It smelled of sawdust, paint, oil makeup, hot glass, and Febreze. And velvet. Heavy, dusty velvet—the curtain. Beneath the rustle and whispered hum of the audience, Matt could hear performers and musicians scurrying backstage—the performers were doing some kind of cultish chanting he couldn't quite make out—electricity buzzed through the lights above the audience and the stage, and the speakers thrummed at the ready. Less than five minutes into the show, Matt understood both why the show was frequently accused of blasphemy and what Luke had meant about Judas not only being not the bad guy but more the main character than Jesus. Then the rest of the cast came on and Matt instantly picked out Luke by his voice. He smiled. If anyone asked, he just liked the music.

It was a good thing Matt more or less knew the story already, because he missed quite a few details tracking Luke through the wings.

 

Saturday evening, Matt let himself in through Luke's window. Judging by the humidity and the scent of sandalwood and lemongrass, Luke had just showered. “Hey there,” Luke said brightly, alerted by the scrape of the window and the thud of Matt's boots on the floor.

“Hey.” Matt took one of Luke's hands, raised it, and pressed a handful of flowers into it—Luke didn't need to know the flowers were stollen from a brothel that, as of tonight, was out of business. “Bravo.”

Luke laughed happily, held the flowers to his face, and breathed deeply before lowering them again. “So you saw the show?”

“Yeah, I did. You were great.”

Luke ducked his head, skin warming. “Thank you.”

“You should probably put those in water,” Matt said.

“Right. Yeah. Water. Vase.” Luke went to the kitchen and stared digging through the cabinets for a vase. While he rummaged, he asked, “So blasphemous or no?”

“Definitely,” Matt said with a chuckle. “But I think that might not be a bad thing.”

“Fair enough.” Luke found a vase, filled it with water, and put the flowers in it. He took it to the living room and set it on the coffee table.

“Won't your cat knock that over?”

“She doesn't tend to knock stuff over, actually. She'd rather play with the—”

“Light switches,” Matt finished for him.

“Right.” Luke laughed softly. He pulled Matt with him to drop onto the couch and sank into the cushions.

“Tired?”

“Exhausted,” Luke sighed. “But it's good tired.” He took Matt's gloved hand. “Thank you for coming to the show, it means a lot to me.”

“It's no big deal,” Matt said dismissively, flexing his fingers between Luke's. “I had some free time, and my friends wanted to go anyway.”

“Your friends, huh?” Luke let go of his hand. He was quiet a moment. “Do you friends know about me?”

“No,” Matt said shortly. “For the sake of your safety, it's better that your connection to me isn't known.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Things were quiet a long moment. Venus seemed to be asleep under the bookshelf.

“I missed you, you know,” Luke said softly.

“Huh?”

Luke leaned on Matt's shoulder. “When you didn't show up for like a month, I was worried you weren't going to come back at all. The way you left that morning, you just ran. Was—was it because there's someone else?”

“No, no, there's not anyone.” Matt was very aware of Luke's weight on his shoulder; it was making it hard to think of a way to change the subject that wasn't horribly obvious.

“I don't actually have a clock in my room so it couldn't have been because you realized you were running late.”

“I _did_ end up late for work.”

“But that's not why you bolted.”

“Well, no,” Matt admitted.

“Is it because I'm blind? Did that freak you out?”

“No! No, Jesus, no….”

“Then why did you?” Luke asked softly, one finger tracing idly along an outer seam on Matt's thigh.

Matt took a deep breath and let it out. “I was scared.”

“What? No,” Luke said, half joking. “You're the Daredevil, you're not scared of anything.”

“Heh, I wish.”

“You don't have to be scared of me.” Luke turned his head to press his face into Matt's shoulder.

"It's not—I'm not scared of you," Matt muttered.

Luke huffed quietly. "Scared that we had sex?"

"Sort of."

"Why?"

"It's—" Matt stalled "—complicated."

Luke was quiet a long moment. "You gonna explain how it's complicated?”

“It doesn't matter.”

“Yes, it does.”

“I'd really rather not talk—”

“We can't just _not_ talk about it,” Luke snapped. He sighed. “Sorry. I can't pretend it didn't happen because it did, and we've been acting for a month like it didn't happen, and it's awkward and weird and I don't know where we stand with each other, so let's talk.”

Matt sighed, pulled off his cowl, and rubbed at his temple. “Okay.”

“Thank you.” Luke took a breath. “So, we had sex.”

Matt grit his teeth. “Yeah.”

“I didn't hate it, did you?” Luke asked, an edge of anxiety to his voice.

Matt chewed on his answer before spitting it out. “No, I didn't.”

Luke let out a relieved breath. “Okay. So you panic and run away for a month because we slept together, but then you're bringing me flowers. Excuse me for not getting it.”

“I just, wasn't expecting what happened,” Matt said carefully. “I wasn't prepared to handle the situation.”

Luke tilted his head. “You ran off...because you were surprised?”

“Yeah.”

“That's it?”

“More or less.”

“That's not very complicated.”

“It's the short version.”

“Okay,” Luke said slowly. “Well, if the problem is that you weren't expecting it, you oughta be okay if you've got forewarning, right? Maybe we could—” he carefully slid off the couch onto his knees in front of Matt, fingers reaching for Matt's belt “—try again.”

Matt grabbed Luke hard by the arm and dragged him roughly to his feet, standing himself as well. Luke held his hands up, palms out, one wrist still in Matt's fist. “Okay, okay, that's a definite 'no.' Okay, nevermind.” Matt let go and Luke took a step back, rubbing at his arm. “Is that a 'no' to blowjob or a 'no' to anything and everything, 'cause it kinda matters.”

It took Matt a moment and several harsh breaths to chew out his answer. “No blowjob.”

“Okay, that's okay. I don't want to pressure you into anything you don't wanna do. So, what _can_ we do? I'll try just about anything once, so long as it's not lethal, so whatever you're comfortable with—”

“I'm not comfortable with anything,” Matt muttered.

“Oh.” Luke ducked his head and scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I'm sorry.” He paused. “If you're not comfortable with anything, but you just said 'no BJ,' then...what?”

“I don't know,” Matt huffed. He sat back down.

Luke shifted his weight from one foot to the other then back. “I'm gonna sit on you now, okay?”

“Uh, okay.”

Luke carefully balanced himself sideways on Matt's knees, one arm across his shoulders, and lay his head on his own arm so his face was not quite tucked to Matt's neck. He traced one finger of his free hand down Matt's nose. “We don't have to do anything.”

“But you want to.”

“Of course I want to.” There was a smile in Luke's voice. “There's a hot vigilante with killer abs on my couch, no duh I _want_ to do a lot of things. But if you don't want to, too, it doesn't matter.” He lay his palm on Matt's cheek. “So, what do you want?”

“I...don't know.”

Luke brushed a thumb over Matt's cheekbone. “Is this okay?”

Matt hesitated but let his hand settle on Luke's knee. “Yeah.”

“How about this?” Luke whispered then pressed a soft, chaste kiss to Matt's lips and pulled away. Matt didn't respond. Luke gently pet his hair. “Hm?”

Matt caught his mouth in a kiss, just as soft, slow, and warm. Luke smiled and shifted how he was sitting to relax more comfortably against Matt's chest, arms looped lazily around his neck. When they toppled over sideways onto the cushions, Luke laughed. “Oops.” He kissed Matt's nose then pressed their foreheads together.

“You're ridiculous.”

“Says the man dressed as a mercenary Satan.” Luke hooked a fingernail into the edge of some of the armor on Matt's chest.

“Oh, shut up,” Matt muttered.

“Okay,” Luke breathed. He let his hand find its way from Matt's chest up to curl his fingers in the back of Matt's hair. He pulled Matt down to kiss him again, lips soft.

Matt drew back. Luke cradled his face gently between his palms. “It's okay,” he whispered.

Matt lay to the side, with his back up against the back of the couch, just so he didn't have to keep holding himself up on his arms. Luke rolled to face him, stroked his hair, and traced his fingers over his face. Matt listened to Luke's hard but even breathing, the steady beat of his heart. The smell of him, by now familiar, surrounded Matt, and the taste of him lingered on Matt's lips. He touched Luke's face, hesitated, then allowed himself to kiss the younger man again. Luke clung to him, returning the kiss with warm enthusiasm. Matt closed his eyes. Luke felt small against him—not weak, but fragile. Especially compared to his own trained, armored form. He wanted to protect him.

A knee between his legs made Matt hiss between his teeth.

He grabbed Luke's hip, fingers digging into the soft cotton of his sweatpants. He was going to regret this. Luke pushed himself on top of Matt, not bothering to hold himself up much. He was _definitely_ going to regret this—but damn it all Luke made it hard to care.

Matt unfastened his suit.

 

After laying with Luke curled up against his bare chest long enough for both their breathing to even out, Matt sat up slowly. "I need to go."

Luke grabbed Matt's arm, pulse suddenly spiking again. "Do you really have to?"

Matt was taken aback by strength of Luke's reaction. He put his hand over the younger man's. "Yeah, I do."

"But you'll come back, right?" Luke pressed.

"Yeah, of course."

"When?"

"When I can."

"Sooner than a month, thought, right?"

"Right," Matt agreed. “Like I have been.”

"You promise?" Luke whispered.

Matt hesitated, then gently squeezed Luke's hand. "I promise."

"Okay." Luke reluctantly let go. He kissed Matt's cheek. "Til next time."

"Til next time," Matt echoed. He got up, got dressed, and went home.

 

~*~

 

Matt heard Foggy come into the gym, but ignored him and focused instead on the rhythm of his breathing, his heartbeat, his fists against the vinyl of the bag. Foggy put his bag down and sat on the edge of the ring. After a while, Matt put out a hand to still the bag. "Hi, Foggy," he panted.

"Hey," Foggy said. "You okay?"

Matt shrugged and took a draught from his water bottle. "Long day in court. You know, you were there."

"Yeah," Foggy sighed. "But hey," he continued brightly, "we won."

"We did win," Matt chuckled.

"Is that all that's going on?"

"Last night was..." Matt searched for the right word, "rough."

"Rough how?" Foggy sounded worried.

Matt kicked the punching bag. "Knife fight, two attempted rapes, car jacking, and what was almost a drug deal gone very wrong. And I might have helped shut down a brothel."

"Yeesh."

"Yeah."

"People suck."

"Yeah."

"You're not abusing that poor, innocent punching bag because people suck."

Matt sighed. "Not exactly, no."

"What's going on with you, buddy?"

"Is 'I'm venting Catholic guilt' a sufficient answer?"

Foggy made a sound in his throat. "You vent your Catholic guilt on yourself, since when do you need an actual punching bag for that?"

"I was pretty sure you disapproved of me taking out my Catholic guilt on myself."

"I do."

"So better the punching bag than me."

"I...can't disagree with that," Foggy conceded. “But, while it might be an improvement, it's still out of character for you and I've got a nagging suspicion there's something behind it.”

Matt rolled his eyes, kneed the bag, then kicked it.

“Did you uncover some super secret dark crime ring again?”

“No, Foggy.”

“Another crazy ex-girlfriend show up outta nowhere?”

“Incredibly, I really only have one of those, and no, she's not back.”

“You didn't go to church this morning, did you?”

Matt huffed and started unwrapping his hands. “No.”

“Can I ask why not?”

“I need to think about some stuff before I talk to my priest.”

“That's not ominous at all,” Foggy said facetiously.

“It's personal stuff, Foggy,” Matt sighed.

Foggy nodded. “Would it help to talk to me about stuff before going to your priest?”

“Not really.” Matt pushed his hair out of his face. “I appreciate you offering though.”

“I'm your best friend, what do you think I'm for?” He held picked up Matt's water bottle and held it out to him. “Let's get some lunch, buddy.”


	7. Chapter 7

The metallic tang of snow seeped in through the window, but Matt was warm. Luke was curled around him, carding his fingers through his hair. “Hey,” Luke murmured, “can I ask you something?”

“Yeah,” Matt slurred softly. “What is it?”

“What's your favorite color?”

Matt's head tilted to the side of it's own accord. “My favorite color?” he asked incredulously.

“I'm kinda fascinated by color,” Luke explained with a shrug. “I was just barely old enough when I lost my sight, that I kinda remember being able to see. I still dream in color from time to time. But I don't know any by name. I like hearing people explain their favorite colors.”

Matt hummed. “Red.”

“Red?”

“My favorite color is red. My father was a boxer, and he always wore red when he fought.”

“That's cool.” Luke cuddled closer to him. “Tell me about red?”

Matt thought for a minute. “It's warm, kinda spicy? Like cinnamon. It's when you're so angry you can't think of anything but destroying the thing that's making you angry. But it's also a beautiful woman in a satin dress. It's blood, and the cherries they put on milkshakes. It's a very strong color, and it's not made of any other colors. It's the opposite of water. It's—I don't know, I've never tried to explain a color like this before.”

Luke nodded slowly. “You did better than a lot of people do. I've been told 'blue is just, like, y'know, blue,' before.”

“But you really don't know.”

“I've got no idea.” Luke chuckled. “I just know what blue Poweraide tastes like.”

“Uhg, not the blue Poweraide again,” Matt teased, then sobered. “Do you have a favorite color?” he asked curiously. “Even if you don't know it by name.”

“Eigengrau.”

Matt paused. “What?”

“Eigengrau. It's German, more or less for self-gray. There's also Eigenlicht, or self-light. They're synonyms, as far as I know. They're the words for the swirly dark you see in the complete absence of light. That's what I see. Just, vague, low-contrast swirls.”

Matt shifted how he was laying. “Eigengrau, huh? Do you speak German?”

Luke laughed once. “No. My best friend speaks German. I just like that German has lots of oddly specific words for things. I do speak Japanese, though, and read tenji—Japanese Braille. You speak anything but English?”

“Spanish,” Matt sighed. “Some French, maybe three words of Punjabi.”

“Punjabi?” Luke snorted.

“It's a long story.”

“I have time.”

“I—” Matt pushed himself up into a sitting position “—do not. I have work in the morning.” He stood.

Luke huffed and flopped over on the mattress. “I've been trying to work out what your day job is, you know.”

Matt paused partway through pulling his pants on. “Yeah? You got a guess?”

“I'm thinking FBI agent.”

Matt chuckled and finished getting dressed. He grabbed his coat from the top of the dresser.

“You got any plans on Christmas?” Luke asked suddenly.

“Uh, yeah. Church.”

Luke hummed and nodded. “When you're done hanging out with Jesus, think you could come hang out with me for a bit?”

“I think I can do that,” Matt agreed gently and zipped his coat.

“Don't fall to your death on the frozen fire escape.”

“I won't.”

 

~*~

 

It was strangely warm on Christmas day. Walking out of the church, Matt almost didn't feel like he needed his scarf. Almost, but not quite.

The smell of evergreen smacked Matt in the face the moment he opened Luke's window. Luke was singing softly to Venus, who was wearing at least five bells by the sound of it. Matt dropped to the floor and shed his winterwear. “When did you get a christmas tree?”

“Last night,” Luke called merrily. “Caroline showed up dressed like stripper santa with our friends Andre and Malcolm. She brought me this tiny tree.” He patted the miniature pine sitting on his coffee table.

“That was nice of her,” Matt chuckled.

The cat hopped up next to the tree, bells jangling. Luke shook his head. “And Andre gave Venus a sweater. With bells. I think he might be sick of getting startled by her.”

“I can hardly blame him.”

Luke laughed softly. “Yeah.” He reached out, found the lapels of Matt's Sunday suit jacket, then his brocade holiday tie, which he used to pull him in for a quick kiss. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” Matt breathed, blood rushing to his face. He was relieved when Luke let him go.

“I got you something,” Luke said brightly.

“O-oh?” Matt stuttered.

“Mhm!” Luke sashayed over to his bookshelf, grabbed something that crinkled—a giftbag stuffed with tissue paper—came back, and pressed the bag into Matt's hands. “Here. Open in.”

Matt took the bag—it was heavy. He discarded the paper and pulled out his unexpected gift. It was a mug embossed with the New York skyline. Matt smiled as he ran his fingers over the design. There was a small box stuffed in the mug. He fished it out. “Bandaids?”

“You seem to need them frequently.”

“Yeah, I do,” Matt admitted. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” He could hear the smile in Luke's voice.

Matt turned the mug in his hands, smiling down at it. A thought struck him and he stiffened.

“Hm?” Luke hummed, sensing the change in Matt's demeanor. “Something wrong?”

“I don't have anything for you,” Matt mumbled apologetically.

Luke tilted his head. “Oh.” He reached out and pulled Matt's tie out from his vest. “That's okay,” he said playfully, tugging Matt down sharply by his tie. “You can be my present,” he whispered.

Matt swallowed and let out a breath. Luke kissed him, undid his jacket and vest, and slipped his arms around Matt's waist against the cotton twill of his shirt. This suit was going to need to be pressed.

Luke pushed him down onto the couch and climbed into his lap while the cat fled, jangling, to the laundry room. Luke smiled against Matt's lips. “I'm just glad you're here,” he murmured warmly, fingers carding gently through Matt's hair.

Matt closed his eyes and let his head tip forward. There was something wrong about being here in his Sunday best. He tipped Luke out of his lap, took off his jacket, vest, and tie, and draped them on the corner of the couch.

 

That evening, Matt was home, drinking a beer and reading after a long shower, when he heard Foggy and Karen coming up the stairs of his building an hour before he'd been expecting them. He sighed, got up, and went to open his door before they'd gotten close enough to knock.

“Merry Christmas!” Karen called brightly down the hall, Foggy echoing the phrase a syllable behind.

“Merry Christmas,” Matt returned.

“I'm gonna hug you now,” Karen warned him, then did so, bopping him on the shoulder with a crinkly gift bag.

Foggy chuckled. “In, in,” he shooed, then pulled the door shut behind them. He shoved a box into Matt's hands, clapped him on the shoulder affectionately, then paused, tilted his head, and tugged at Matt's shirt collar. “Is that a hickie or a bruise? That looks like a hickie.”

Matt shrugged him off, set down the giftbox on his kitchen island, and did up the top button of his shirt.

Foggy crossed his arms. “I'm taking lack of response as confirmation that it's a hickie.”

“Where would he have gotten a hickie?” Karen asked skeptically.

“Who knows.” Foggy shrugged. “He's a cad. At least when he's not busy running around rooftops.”

“They're not mutually exclusive, you know,” Matt said.

“So, what?” Karen teased. “Had a Christmas Day fling with some damsel you rescued from a mugger?”

“Something like that,” Matt muttered. “Your gifts are on the coffee table, I assume you want them.”

“Yeah, we see them,” Foggy said dismissively. “So, this a _thing_ type of thing, or just a one time thing?”

“Foggy,” Matt said sternly.

“Okay, one time thing,” Foggy concluded. “He does that,” he said to Karen. “Did that _a lot_ in college—then there was the crazy girlfriend, but that's a different story.”

“One night stands, huh?” Karen said.

“I suck at relationships, hookups don't tend to care.” Matt pulled the giftbox to him. “I'm opening my presents,” he said, tearing at the paper. Inside was a sweater—quite a soft one—wrapped around something. “Is this alpaca?” Matt asked, bemused, as he tumbled a smaller box out of the sweater. He felt for an opening flap on the smaller box.

“Yeah,” Foggy said with a shrug. “Softest thing I could find. You're so picky about stuff.”

“Five minutes with my nerves in most of your clothes would leave you screaming,” Matt quipped with a grin as he got the box open and ran his fingers over the contents. He laughed. “Rock'em Sock'em Robots?”

“It seemed appropriate,” Foggy said proudly.

Matt laughed again. “Thanks, Foggy.”

“Here,” Karen said warmly as she set the gift bag in front of Matt. He pulled out the paper, then the present inside—a long narrow, roughly rectangular, wooden block, about two feet long, carved into his name in block letters with softened edges. He turned it over in his hands and felt it over. “I figured you might like a name plaque you could actually read,” she explained.

“It's great, Karen. Thanks.” He set the name plaque down. “What did you get each other?” he asked as Foggy grabbed their gifts from across the room.

“I got him some hand made chocolate filled candy canes, and he got me a teddy bear that's also a bluetooth speaker,” Karen said.

“Cute,” Matt chuckled.

Foggy handed Karen her giftbag and started pulling the paper out of his own. He pulled out his gift—a thermos engraved with _My Mom Wanted Me To Be A Butcher—_ and laughed. “Perfect.”

Karen dug her gift out without discarding the paper. “A pink mini stungun. Useful.”

“Seemed like something you'd appreciate more than, I don't know, perfume.” Matt leaned on the counter.

“I don't wear perfume.”

Matt smirked. “I know.”

“Of course you know.” She walked over, shoes clacking softly, and cuffed his ear gently. “You and your super senses, I swear. I bet you know when I'm on my period. Do not respond to that.”

Matt bowed his head so she wouldn't see his expression. Foggy sighed. “Yeah, I find it's best not to think too hard about what all he knows that normal people don't.”

“I'm like a dog,” Matt joked. “So, do we want to go for Chinese or order Chinese?”

Foggy turned to Karen. “I'm for going out.”

“Fine by me,” Karen agreed.

“Great.” Matt went over to grab his coat. “I have a belated gift to buy anyway.”

 

When Luke woke up on December twenty-seventh, he found a canister of tea on his dresser that wasn't there when he went to bed. There was a bow stuck to the top and a note taped to it in punched out braille: Happy 3rd day of Christmas.

Luke smiled to himself.


	8. Chapter 8

The sequins on Karen's dress jangled softly as she jumped up and down to the music pumping through Times Square. Matt wasn't sure how he'd been roped into this. He grit his teeth against the overwhelming storm of sensory information: competing music from various parties, the electric hum and buzz of all the digital billboards and lights and signs and cameras and speakers, the hiss and scrape of the ball itself as it slowly lowered with a few minutes left 'til midnight, thousands of people screaming or talking or laughing or singing, the mingling perfumes of so many women failing to mask the odor of so many bodies, coffee and hot dogs and garbage wafting through the square, the ground vibrating under so many feet, all the godforsaken noisemakers and horns.... Foggy clasped his shoulder and Matt flinched away. “Don't touch me.”

“You okay, buddy?” Foggy asked, blessedly refraining from yelling, knowing Matt could hear him anyway.

“There's a reason I don't come to this,” Matt responded. “It's a lot to take in.”

“Yeah,” Foggy said sympathetically. “But Karen's new to New York, it's a rite of passage.”

“I know.” Matt sighed.

“You've only gotta hold out 'til next year, buddy.”

Matt snorted. Next to them, Karen continued to dance in oblivious excitement. When the ball finally dropped and there was a deafening chorus of “Happy New Year!” Karen grabbed the both of them, kissed Matt on the cheek, then Foggy. She hugged them, laughing. Matt stiffly hugged her back as flurries of confetti fell on them. It didn't take long for the party to disperse. Karen looped her arms through the men's as they walked away. “This was awesome,” she breathed.

“Glad you enjoyed it,” Foggy said brightly. “Your first _real_ New York New Years.”

“It's a rite of passage,” Matt said. “Just never drag me to it again.”

Karen made a sound in her throat. “Too much noise for you?”

“The noise isn't even the half of it.”

“Oh, I'm sorry.”

“I survived,” Matt dismissed, patting her hand were it rested on his arm. He broke away from them at a cross street, turned toward home for a block, then stopped and headed toward Chelsea. It was not quite freezing as he climbed the fire escape. There was music playing inside, but only Luke and his cat were inside, so Matt let himself in. “Hey,” he called over the music.

Luke turned around fast, bumped the edge of the couch, stumbled, caught himself, and giggled. He smacked his stereo to stop the music. “Hey,” he said happily. “Happy New Year!”

“Happy New Year,” Matt said. He could smell alcohol on Luke—not a lot, but clearly enough for him to be buzzed. “Are you celebrating alone?”

Luke shook his head, reached out, fingers groping and he carefully stepped toward Matt. “Only been home a few minutes.” He found Matt and hugged him. “Was at a party a block over. Didn't get a New Year's kiss though.”

“Oh?”

“Mhm.” Luke giggled and stretched up to kiss him clumsily. When he pulled away, he murmured, “Oh, hey, thanks for the tea.” He leaned against Matt and giggled vaguely.

“Okay,” Matt said with indulgent caution, “you're drunk.” He steered Luke to the couch.

“Tipsy at most,” Luke muttered indignantly. He plopped on the couch then pulled Matt down with him, crawled into his lap, and curled against him, head resting on his shoulder.

Matt put a steadying arm around him to keep Luke from sliding off his lap. “You are more than tipsy. How much did you have?”

“A couple glasses of sangria, a handful of vodka gummy bears, and a glass of champagne.”

Matt frowned. “You shouldn't be this drunk from that much.”

“I'm Asian and, like, a hundred and twenty pounds,” Luke mumbled.

“Good point.”

Luke curled his fingers in Matt's shirt gently, running his thumb over a button. “You go to any parties?”

“I was crammed into Times Square with a million other people.”

Luke snorted and giggled. “Fun.”

Matt hummed noncommittally. He gently dumped Luke out of his lap onto the couch, got up, went to the kitchen, felt around the fridge for a Poweraid, came back, cracked the Poweraid open, and pressed the bottle into Luke's hand. “Drink this, dilute the booze in your system.”

“Mkay,” Luke hummed, then sipped it. “Tastes like blue.” He giggled.

“You want some of the leftover pizza you've got in the fridge?”

“Hmm.” Luke burrowed into the couch cushions. “No.”

“You oughta eat something.”

“I'm not hungry.”

“I'm finding you something to eat,” Matt said firmly and went back to dig through Luke's kitchen. The cat meowed at him from the top of the fridge. “Your human is a stupid drunk, do you know that?”

She meowed again.

Matt found a box of Toaster Strudel in the freezer—smelled like the cream cheese ones, not the fruity ones. He toasted a couple of them and brought them to Luke, who nibbled at them dutifully until he fell asleep. Matt picked him up carefully and lay him in his bed before leaving to go home.


	9. Chapter 9

Matt had mixed feelings about Ash Wednesday—he'd kind of always liked it as a kid, and that hadn't really gone away, but since the accident the ashes themselves felt...strange. He liked the ritual of it. When he was little, he and the other kids at the church his grandmother dragged him to would argue over whose ashes looked the most like an actual cross, rather than a smudge. It was a point of pride. After Ash Wednesday, his grandmother always enforced lent with an iron fist, and Matt had hated it. When she died, his dad had started to enforce lent in honor of her memory, albeit less stringently. That made it suck less at least.

His train of thought was interrupted by a conversation between two women a few pews ahead of him.

“Where's Sarah? She normally comes with you for holidays and such.”

“She's no longer welcome in this church or my house.”

“What? Why? What happened?”

“I found out she's been having sex with her roommate. I tried to talk to her about it, to help her, but she told me she's a _lesbian_ and wouldn't listen to sense. There was nothing else I could do.”

“Oh, I'm so sorry. That must be hard, but I think you did the right thing.” She patted the other woman's arm comfortingly. “We'll just have to pray for her and hope that she'll see the light, come back to God and to you.”

“I know.”

The conversation itself stung Matt—when, later during the service Father Lantom lead a prayer for God to “help your daughter, Sarah, to find her proper way,” it struck Matt like a blow. He bowed his head, disgusted with and ashamed of himself. It only got worse over the course of mass and didn't improve the next day at work.

“Hey,” Foggy said gently that afternoon, while Matt typed case notes, “you okay, buddy? You've been kinda weird all day, and I hate to admit that my first concern is that you killed somebody.”

“That's always your first concern,” Matt muttered as he hit the enter key on his brailler harder than was necessary.

“ _Matt_ , you're taking your feelings out on your brailler, which is a bad idea because it costs many, many monies.”

Matt huffed and shoved the brailler out of his reach.

Foggy reached out and rubbed Matt's shoulder. “What's going on with you?”

“I didn't kill anybody.” Matt scrubbed a hand over his face, pushing his glasses out of the way. He needed to shave.

“Refraining from murder is not a reason to abuse your brailler.”

Matt leaned back in his chair with a wuff of breath. “I'm going to Hell.”

“Matt—”

“The lying and violence is a trade off for the greater good, I repent for harm I do and I mean it, I've come to terms with what I do. I lost my sight, but I gained other gifts, it is my responsibility to do what good I can with what I've been granted _and I try_. That's the most God can ask of me.”

“Okay.” Foggy sat on the edge of the table. “So if that's not the issue, why are you going to hell?”

“Because of lesbians,” Matt sighed.

“What?” Foggy asked, dumbfounded. “Wait, what? No. _You_ are not going to Hell because of lesbians. No one is going to Hell because of lesbians. Lesbians are wonderful and perfect and should be left to their own devices.”

“No.” Matt got up and went to press his forehead to the cold glass of the window. “I mean—shit.” He took a deep breath. “A family who goes to my church disowned their daughter.”

“Because she's a lesbian?”

“Yes.”

“Well that's some bullshit, if you ask me. How's it affect you?”

“The other parishioners supported disowning her.”

“Well, Matty, you go to a Catholic church. The church is pretty cloud-up-and-rain about all things rainbows, unless it's the whole rainbow after the flood promise thing, which is the one thing I remember from kindergarten Sunday school.” He paused. “Is this about the crush-who-shall-not-be-named?”

“No.”

“Matt, I thought you were over that. It was how many years ago now?”

“Foggy, no.”

“Did you run into him?”

“No!”

“Was he at a coffee shop? _Did he get buff_?”

“It's nothing to do with him!”

“Then what?”

“I've been sleeping with someone.”

There was a long moment of stunned silence. Matt cursed. Foggy took a breath. “Oh.”

“Don't say 'oh' like that.” Matt slumped against the wall and slid down it to sit on the floor.

“Don't say 'oh' like what?”

“You know like what,” Matt muttered darkly. “And I'm going to hell for being an unrepentant sodomite.”

“First of all, don't call yourself that. Second, you clearly feel like shit. If you were actually unrepentant, you wouldn't feel like shit.”

“That...is true,” Matt admitted. He sighed, took off his glasses, and wiped his eyes. “I've got to end it.”

“Uh,” Foggy began. “Why?”

“I just told you.”

“No, you really didn't. All you told me is that you feel like shit because your religion is at odds with your sex life.”

“Exactly.”

“...and you think the appropriate solution to this problem is to remove your sex life from the equation?”

“Yes.”

“I think that is the most ridiculously Catholic thing I've ever heard.”

Matt got to his feet. “It's a bad idea, anyway.” He pulled on his jacket. “He—he doesn't know _me_. He only knows me in the mask—”

“That's some kinky shit, Matt.” Foggy followed him as he went for his coat.

“Not like that,” Matt snapped. He lowered his voice. “He only knows me as Daredevil and it's only a matter of time before that catches up to him and he gets hurt.”

“Oh. Okay, yeah, that's not the best thing ever.” Foggy leaned against the front door. “And super unhealthy. If you're in a relationship—”

“I'm not.”

“Are you sure?”

Matt nodded. “It's really just sex.”

Foggy crossed his ankles and didn't move from the door.

“Foggy, can you move?”

Reluctantly, Foggy stepped away. “Don't do anything stupid.”

“I won't.” Matt grabbed his cane and left the office, leaving Foggy sighing behind him.

 

Matt waited until Saturday evening to go by Luke's apartment. The first time he checked, only the cat was home, clawing enthusiastically at a cardboard box, so Matt went to scare a couple teenagers away from a street corner before they made up their minds to buy crack, then returned. This time, Luke was home. Matt let himself in through the bedroom window, as usual. Luke paused in the next room then set down a mug of tea. “Hey, you. Wasn't really expecting you around until tomorrow.”

“Hey,” Matt said cautiously, stepping into the living room. Luke reached for his hand but Matt pulled away.

Luke took a step back and quietly crossed one arm over his chest to rub at his own shoulder. “Is something wrong?”

“Actually, yes. Uh.” Matt ran a hand through his hair. “This _thing_ we've been doing, it can't go on like this.”

“What are you saying?” Luke asked, voice low and over-even.

“This entire thing,” Matt said slowly, “has been a huge mistake, and it never should have happened. I—I'm sorry, Luke. I won't be around to bother you again.”

“Wait a—”

“Bye.” Matt hastened back out the window and partway down the fire escape.

Above him, through the still-open window, he heard Venus meow, then Luke take a shaky, wet breath and say, “That didn't just happen. That can't've just happened. He—he can't. He can't.”

Matt swallowed hard past the tightness of his throat, slipped the batons from their holster on his thigh, and went to find trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is it for now. There is a part 2 in the works, but I have a comicon to attend so it won't be until after that. Thanks for reading. :)


End file.
